


just another graceless night

by funeralthot (lants)



Series: we may make it through the war if we make it through the night [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1930s, Bottom Steve Rogers, Gay Bucky Barnes, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Oral Sex, Penis In Vagina Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-War, Top Bucky Barnes, Trans Male Character, Trans Steve Rogers, i tried my best to be historically accurate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-29 12:19:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19019791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lants/pseuds/funeralthot
Summary: When they retire to their shared bed, there’s this… look that Bucky has on his face, eyes glinting with some emotion that Steve can’t read. Completely undecipherable. He doesn’t know what he expects Bucky to say, after that, but it’s not:“Gotta tell you about this dame from last night, Stevie.”(Or: Bucky apparently thinks it's fun to tell Steve what he gets up to after his dates are over. Steve is a little too into it.)





	just another graceless night

**Author's Note:**

> please note: steve is a trans man in this story. the author is also a trans man. neutral words are used to describe steve's genitalia; nothing feminine-coded. there is vaginal sex, though, so if you're trans and you think that that sort of thing would make you dysphoric, please don't read any further. also, if we're applying modern terminology: bucky is a gay cis man, and steve is a bisexual trans man. none of these words are used in the story, but i figured i'd put this in the notes so that there isn't any debate.
> 
> in general, please heed the tags, especially "period-typical attitudes" and "internalized transphobia".
> 
> lastly, i'd like to thank levi for his help history-checking this; his twitter is [@levi_76_99](http://twitter.com/levi_76_99), and i encourage you all to give him a follow!

The first time it happens, they’ve both had a little too much to drink. There’s an entire bottle of whiskey between them; Bucky’s had about triple the amount Steve has, but they’re both just as warm and fuzzy-feeling around the edges. When they retire to their shared bed, ( _It’s cheaper that way_ , Bucky had argued when they first got it. _Easier. ‘Sides, it’s not like you mind sharing, huh? Just like when we were kids._ ) Steve falls right onto his back, and Bucky lays on his side.

There’s this… look he has, eyes glinting with some emotion that Steve can’t read. Completely undecipherable. He doesn’t know what he expects Bucky to say, after that, but it’s not:

“Gotta tell you about this dame from last night, Stevie.”

Steve shifts a little, where he’s laying underneath the sheets and the heavy duvet. “Okay,” he concedes, and he hopes it doesn’t sound like a question.

That’s evidently all the encouragement Bucky needs. “Was such a fuckin’ looker. God, you should’a seen her,” he says, and despite the fact that he’s describing some dame Steve’s never met before, Bucky’s eyes won’t leave his face. “Had a goddamn rack like you’ve never seen. Met her at the dance hall, and when the night was over, she let me finger her in an alley.”

His breathing hitches as Bucky speaks; Steve decides, in that moment, to blame it on his shitty lungs and not his ridiculous, unrequited crush on his best friend.

“She was so fucking wet around my fingers,” he drawls on, seemingly unaware of the effect his words are having on Steve. Absently, Steve shifts his thigh, resisting the urge to curse under his breath when he realizes _he’s_ wet, too. Just like the dame Bucky’s talking about. (His lust outweighs his discomfort toward the comparison.)

“She wanted it so bad. Should’ve heard the moans she was letting out while I fingered her and rubbed her. And when I touched that spot inside her, she was gone. It was like—”

And then Bucky lets out this soft moan, his voice turning deeper and more primal. He realizes, belatedly, that Bucky is _hard_.

He knows it’s because he’s thinking about that dame. Knows it’s not because of something stupid, like _him_. But that traitorous part of Steve that resides right between his legs doesn’t care.

When Bucky falls asleep soon after that, Steve rubs himself, shame heating up his cheeks as he pushes his hand underneath the loose waistband of his pants. Pathetically, it’s not even a minute later before he’s whining softly into his pillow, shaking the mattress beneath him as he comes.

 

They don’t talk about it the next morning, or the morning after that. Steve is more than happy to abide by this.

The orgasm he’d had that night was the best he’d had in a long while. Of course, Bucky was usually the culprit of his fantasies whenever he’d rub one out, but this time, it was different. More personal. Bucky turned him on with his words, and he was right next to Steve, unconscious, while Steve came all over his fingers.

He’d never dared to touch himself while Bucky was sleeping next to him, before. There was this undeniable feeling of shame, but part of it was thrilling, in a way he can’t quantify. Yet, the shame is twofold. He doesn’t like the fact that Bucky turned him on with those words. Not when he was talking about a _dame._

Steve’s not a dame. He knows that Bucky knows this, knows damn well that Bucky was one of the few people who supported him when he decided to move to a different neighborhood and start living as the man he’d always known that he was. But he can’t stop himself from feeling like shit. He only wishes he could.

After that night, he starts… _taking care of himself_ a lot more often. He doesn’t dare to do it while Bucky’s in the same bed again, instead waiting for when Bucky’s working late down at the docks, or when he’s out for the night with one of the dames from his stories. (That way, he doesn’t have to feel guilty when he groans out _Buck_ as he comes, hot and wet over his own hand.)

And then, one night, as he’s just about to settle in for a night’s sleep, Bucky walks through the front door of their tiny studio apartment smelling like booze and sweat.

“ _Steeeeeevie_ ,” he sighs, flopping down onto their bed hard enough to jostle Steve a little. “Guess who got _laid_.”

He’s silent, eyes squeezed shut. Maybe, if he stays still enough, Bucky will think he’s asleep.

“I know you’re awake, pal,” he says, and Steve curses under his breath. Are they doing this again? Steve doesn’t know if he has the goddamn mental fortitude.

“‘S alright. You don’t have to say anything. Jus’ listen.” His words are slurring a little; he guesses that’s why he’d just come home smelling like a distillery. “She wanted it so bad, god, you don’t even _know_. Soon as we got to her place, she bent over her couch and just let me take her.”

The whine that Steve lets out is completely involuntary. Panic shoots through him; he doesn’t even know what this tenuous thing is between them, but he’s already managed to ruin it by getting _turned on_. He squeezes his eyes shut, expecting the worst; expecting Bucky to freeze, to get up and walk out.

Instead, he feels a tentative but firm hand on his forearm.

“S’okay, Stevie, you can touch yourself,” he murmurs softly. When he speaks, he sounds a lot closer than he did before; when Steve leans back a little, he can feel the hard line of Bucky’s body pressed against him. It makes him shiver. “I know you touched yourself last time. It’s okay, do it, I wanna hear you.”

It takes him a few seconds, but Steve tentatively obliges. He ghosts his fingers down the front of his sleep pants, eyelids fluttering shut when he hears the sharp inhale coming from behind him.

“Good, baby. Yeah, just like that,” Bucky praises, and Christ, this doesn’t feel _real_. This has to be some kind of fantastic dream; he’s going to wake up any second now with ruined underwear and flushed cheeks, and Bucky’s going to tease him about the noises he’d been making while he slept. Yet right now, in this very moment, Bucky takes another deep breath and continues.

“Yeah, you want me to tell you about the dame, huh?” he says, and Steve wants to laugh, but he’s afraid he’d actually scream if he opened his mouth. So that’s what Bucky thinks this is about; he thinks Steve’s picturing himself in Bucky’s shoes, fucking some nameless woman, instead of imagining that _he’s_ the one who Bucky’s bending over the couch.

It’s actually funny, how oblivious Bucky is. But he lets him think that. It’s easier.

“She felt so fuckin’ good around me, Steve,” he continues, and Steve’s less focused on the words themselves and more on how Bucky’s voice slips into this lower register as he talks, cock hardening where it’s pressed flush against his ass. “I held onto her hips as I fucked her, nice and fast and deep. She was makin’ all these cute little sounds, so good for me.” Steve’s fingers move faster, and it becomes so easy to touch himself with how wet he is. He squeezes his eyes shut as he rubs himself, and god, he’s so _close_ , he’s gonna come just like this, with Bucky pressed against his back.

He feels Bucky’s hips stutter against him, just once, almost like he’s _thrusting_ —

Despite the teeth digging into his bottom lip, he moans when he comes, thighs squeezing together.

“There y’go, Stevie, jus’ like that,” he murmurs, and Steve knows that what he says is probably out of habit, or perhaps happiness that he was able to make a friend feel good, but… just this once, for a minute, Steve lets himself pretend.

He passes out shortly after that, and when he wakes up, he’s completely wrapped around Bucky, encasing him with his skinny limbs all around him. As if sensing some kind of disturbance, Bucky stirs, looking right at Steve as soon as his eyes are open.

“Have a good time, sweetheart?” Bucky asks, voice dipping into that lower register Steve’s heard him use on those stupid goddamn double dates he sometimes drags Steve out to. It takes him a long moment to realize that the cocky smirk and flirty tone are directed at _him_.

Oh. Oh _no_. Steve is so, undeniably, screwed.

 

It becomes a pretty regular occurrence, after that. Bucky comes home from dates with a cheeky smile on his face, and right then, it doesn’t matter what Steve’s doing. Whether he’s sleeping or painting or eating, he drops whatever it is and gets into their bed, Bucky in tow.

After the third time, Bucky starts touching himself, too. Steve surges with both pride and arousal whenever he thinks about that fact. One time, Steve had managed to catch a glimpse of him in the soft light streaming through the dirty window; it wasn’t his first time seeing Bucky’s cock, but it was definitely his first time in that context specifically. Bucky is… pretty big, though Steve supposes he doesn’t have much to compare him to, with the extent of his own sexual experience being with his own left hand. Still, the realization had made him warm all over, in a way he didn’t much know what to do with.

Neither of them ever strip, when they do this sort of thing. They never look at each other, either. (Or, at least, Steve doesn’t.) It feels too much like crossing some kind of invisible line.

And then, one day, Bucky comes home at around midnight. In the lamp light, Steve can see that he’s smiling, but it looks different. Less cocky and more genuine.

“You’ll never guess who it was tonight,” Bucky starts off, and something about his tone is shy, almost. Steve can feel his eyebrows furrowing; he’s never seen Bucky like this before. For a few seconds, he tries to wrack his brain for any dames he knows about that could make Bucky feel this way.

“Nancy?” he asks, eyebrows knitting even further when Bucky shakes his head. “Bev?” Again, he shakes his head, and Steve tries to mentally conjure more of the girls he’s seen Bucky around the neighborhood with. “Janet?”

At that one, Bucky actually _snorts_. “Steve, I haven’t seen Janet in like… three years,” he reminds him gently, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up on a hook near the front door. Steve sighs and shakes his head, at a loss.

“I got nothin’,” he admits. Bucky just smiles, making his way to their shared bed and toeing off his shoes. “Can’t think of any dame that’d get you this happy.”

Bucky laughs, which only makes Steve frown.

“What’s so funny?” he asks with a huff. At the same time, he’s trying very hard not to look at Bucky as he strips down to his undershirt and briefs. Bucky, seemingly in response, just laughs again.

“It’s ‘cause it wasn’t a dame,” he admits. He gets into bed beside Steve, smile getting softer, more heartfelt. “It was Ray. From the docks.”

Steve is fairly sure his brain is broken. He must look the part, too, with the way Bucky’s glancing over; his soft, faintly happy expression starts to harden a little.

“Don’t tell me you got a problem with that, Stevie,” he starts, and he’s got that same long-suffering tone he affects whenever he’s pulling Steve out of alleyways and seedy bars. Steve’s eyes go wide, then.

“No! ‘Course not,” he says, and he can feel the sigh of relief that Bucky lets out between them. “Besides, wouldn’t that be… I dunno, a little hypocritical of me?”

( _Hypocritical in more ways than one_ , he thinks, but doesn’t say.)

Bucky snorts. “Yeah. Guess so.”

Things are quiet between them, after that. They both settle under the covers, and Steve switches the bedside lamp off. The only sounds that fill the apartment are various traffic noises from the street below, funneling in through the open window. Steve watches the way the light breeze billows through the curtains, and he almost misses it when Bucky says:

“You still want me to tell you about it?”

Steve stiffens a little, but then he shifts so he’s laying on his back. He chances a look over at Bucky, even though he can’t see much when his eyes haven’t adjusted to the low light yet.

“Yeah,” he breathes, finally. “Tell me.”

At this point, neither of them need to be prompted to start touching themselves. Steve’s pushing his sleep pants further down his legs so he doesn’t cramp his wrist when Bucky starts talking.

“Where to start?” He muses, though for all that Bucky’s trying to seem like the unaffected narrator, Steve hears his breathing getting heavier. He already has a hand on his cock, judging by the way the blanket’s moving in his peripheral vision.

“Me ‘n the guys were havin’ a drink or two at the bar,” he sighs. Bucky hasn’t even gotten to the good stuff yet, and Steve’s already pathetically wet. He teases himself with his fingers, lightly trailing up and down but never pushing, never rubbing that bundle near the top that makes him gasp and whine and clench his thighs together. “The way he looked at me… it was like he wanted to fuckin’ eat me alive. And fuck, I’d be lyin’ if I said I haven’t always wanted to fuck a guy, Stevie. Right there, from across the bar? I wanted him more than I've ever wanted any dame in my life.”

“I said I was goin’ outside for a smoke, but I had just gone out for one twenty minutes ago. And I think he knew that, too. So I get outside, and then I hear the door open and shut behind me, and I just _know_ he’s there. So I turn and head to the side of the building and ‘round back, where I knew no one’d bother us. And as soon as I'm there, he pushes me up against the wall and kisses me.”

Steve moans, rocking up against his hand, and it seems to spur Bucky on. “It was so fuckin’ hot, Stevie,” he continues, words a little stilted now that he’s touching himself properly. Steve can hear it, even through the thin layer of the blanket; skin meeting skin, up and down, steady rhythm. He gets a finger on himself, _right_ on the part that drives him wild, and he could swear he hears Bucky curse under his breath at the resulting moan that escapes his lips.

On nights like these, it’s so easy to pretend that Bucky’s worked up because of him.

“And then, he slides his hands down the front of my pants, and he’s so fuckin’ sure about it, with the way he’s moving. I’m already really fuckin’ hard, and he’s making it worse by just wrappin’ his fingers around me, like we’re two teenagers making out in a car. I could’ve come right there, but then he stops and gets on his knees, and— _ah, fucking shit_ — and he gets my cock in his mouth.”

“It felt so fuckin’ good. I know it’s cliched, and everyone says somethin’ like this… but it was like there was a shooting star inside me, and it lit up wherever he touched. Fucking _fuck_ , Stevie, I didn’t even last two minutes. He made me come so fuckin’ hard that I was afraid I was gonna fall over and land in the garbage.”

Steve knows better that to stifle his pathetic-sounding whines and moans, at this point. For whatever fucking reason, hearing Steve seems to turn Bucky on even more, whenever they do this, and tonight is no exception.

“Yeah, Stevie, keep goin’,” he encourages softly. “Like that, yeah, wanna hear you come.”

Steve is rubbing himself so fast and pressing down so firmly with each stroke of his fingertips that he’s almost afraid it’ll bruise. It only gets worse when Bucky is spurring him on beside him, voice soft yet firm as he tells him to come, talks him through how good it’s going to feel.

Steve, all his life, has never been able to deny James Buchanan Barnes a single goddamn thing, and he’s not about to start now.

“ _Buck_ , I'm—!” he cries, and then he’s coming so hard, he feels liquid gushing between his legs. He should probably be worried about the wet spot he’s creating on the mattress, but he doesn’t care. He’s coming, and it’s because of _Bucky_ , and it feels so fucking good. So good, in fact, that for a solid minute, all he can do is lay there and moan.

When he’s crashed back down to earth, he’s panting hard, and he’s evidently chosen just the right time to come to awareness; he can hear Bucky letting out these desperate groans beside him, and when he sneaks a glance, the sight makes his mouth water.

The sheets and blanket are pooled around Bucky’s thighs, and he’s got a hand fisted around himself in a tight grip, thumb and forefinger forming a circle around the head of his cock. Steve can’t look away; all he can think about, now that he’s looking directly at Bucky, is all the different ways he wants that thick cock inside of him; in his hands, in his mouth, in his—

Bucky looks directly into his eyes, and then he throws his head back and comes.

It is, hands down, the hottest thing Steve has ever witnessed. He spills all over his fingers and stomach and chest, and Steve must be more out of it than he’d originally thought, because he very nearly reaches a hand out so he can gather up some of Bucky’s cum and _taste it_.

Christ. He’s so fucking depraved. If Bucky knew half the things Steve thought about doing to him—

“Enjoy the show?” Bucky pants. He’s gazing at Steve with a coy sort of look in his eye, the kind of expression he puts on right before he’s about to say or do something that could get both of their asses handed to them on silver platters. Steve opens his mouth, even though he doesn’t know what to say, because _what is he supposed to say to that_ , but Bucky shuts him right up.

“Next time, you’re gonna have to show me what you’re doin’, Stevie,” he continues on, completely oblivious to the fact that his words are bringing Steve closer and closer to an early grave. “‘S only fair. Maybe we’ll even keep the lights on.”

They’ve definitely crossed a line, now, Steve thinks helplessly. They’re in those murky waters between “friends” and “more”, and fuck if Steve has ever been a good swimmer. But when he casually returns Bucky’s smirk and tries to pretend that his cheeks aren’t currently hotter than New York City asphalt in the middle of July… it feels like this is well and truly inevitable. Always has been.

Even if it means putting his own well-being on the line, Steve wouldn’t so much as hesitate to do anything Bucky asks of him. Any timeline, any universe.

 

After that, Bucky never sleeps with a dame ever again.

Steve truly, honest to god, feels terrible that Bucky ever had to pretend. Bucky doesn’t say that outright, of course, but Steve’s been friends with him since he was six years old. He knows his best friend much better than said best friend would ever give him credit for.

Why he’d ever slept with dames in the first place, Steve isn’t sure, but after that night with the man from Bucky’s job, he never looks back. He doesn’t know where Bucky finds these fellas in the first place, but there’s definitely a lot more where that first guy came from.

Something flares inside of Steve, then, and it’s something more than the usual tight, hot coil at the base of his stomach when he’s about to come, though it gets him just as fired up. It takes until Bucky tells him about his first time getting fucked for Steve to realize what it is; why he’s picturing _himself_ being the one to fuck Bucky, and why he’s disappointed by the truth of the situation.

Steve is jealous. Not for the first time; not by a long shot. But there’s something different about it, now that Bucky’s sleeping with fellas instead of dames.

Back when it was dames, Steve had accepted that he’ll never have a chance in hell with Bucky. After all, it sure seemed like Bucky enjoyed the fairer sex, and Steve wasn’t exactly a woman. He _still isn’t_ a woman. He doesn’t care what his pa said before he got shipped out and never came home, doesn’t care what the broads around the old neighborhood had gasped and twittered about the first time they saw him with a haircut and too-large men’s clothing: Steve is a man. Always has been. Nothing as trite as biology could ever get in the way of that.

But now that Bucky’s having it off with other men, it’s a lot easier for Steve to give into those dark thoughts in the back of his mind. After all, sure, Bucky knows he isn’t a dame, but surely he can’t possibly think Steve’s a _real man_. He doesn’t have the kind of parts Bucky wants, isn’t the right height, the right build, the right _anything_ for him.

And then Bucky’s storming into the apartment at three in the afternoon, door slamming shut behind him in a whirlwind while Steve is working on some commission piece for the corner store at the end of their block. He takes one look at Steve and grunts as he slides into the chair across from him.

“I need a drink,” he announces dramatically to the room, as if it contains more than just Steve and a bunch of rough drafts for advertisements laying across the paltry surface area of their kitchen table.

“I'm not your housewife, Barnes,” Steve quips without so much as looking up. “Make one yourself.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, but he still gets up and wanders over to their sad excuse for a liquor shelf. Steve can’t see what he’s doing, but judging by the sounds he’s making, Bucky’s getting himself a _big_ drink, all while cursing under his breath.

Alright, fuck it. Steve puts the pencil down and starts rubbing his temples. There’s no way he’s getting any work done right now, not when Bucky is this upset.

“Wanna tell me what happened?” Steve asks, raising an eyebrow. “Or are you just gonna sulk all day? Really hope it’s the former, ‘cause you _know_ we can’t afford to repair another hole in the wall.”

He mumbles under his breath.

“You know I'm deaf in one ear, Buck.”

Bucky stomps over to the (now cleared, at least a little) kitchen table like he’s got some sort of Atlas-like burden on his shoulders, then takes a long, _long_ chug of amber-colored liquid. He sets it down on the wood so hard that there’s a loud _clink_ , then says, “Got called a faggot by someone from work. So I punched him. Now I'm out of a job.”

That honest to god sounds like something Bucky would get angry at _Steve_ for doing. When he says as much, he gets a long, world-weary sigh.

“Yeah, well, I'm almost six foot and I can take a punch back without passing out,” he replies pointedly. “Plus, you’re never defendin’ _yourself._ You always gotta be defendin’ someone else; ‘s just how it is with you.”

Bucky’s right, but the last thing Steve would _ever_ do is admit that. “Still,” he says with a shrug, which only earns another sigh.

“I'm just fucking _sick_ and _tired_ ,” he bites out. “I know, I'm always haranguin’ you about how the world ain’t fair and you just gotta deal with it… but dealing with it fucking _sucks_ sometimes, Stevie.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he replies, narrowing his eyes. “Sure, people see me as a man now, but they don’t see me like they see _you_. They see a _punk_ with long eyelashes and skinny hips, and I get called every fuckin’ name in the book for it.” Steve pauses his tirade to sigh; great, now _he_ needs a drink.

“I don’t mean it to sound like you shouldn’t have punched ‘im, ‘cause you _should’ve_ , and I'm glad you did,” he continues, with a pointed glance at Bucky. “Just. I know exactly what you’re feelin’, is all. But we’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Steve can’t quantify the look that Bucky gives him, just then. It’s an expression he’s seen a few times, but it’s rare, and it’s certainly never been directed at _him_ before.

“Yeah,” Bucky echoes. “We always do.”

 

Later that same night, Bucky stumbles through the door just as Steve’s pushing two fingers inside of himself. He doesn’t even have so much as a sheet covering him; he’s naked from the waist down on the bed, legs spread apart wide enough that there’s no mistaking what he’s doing. He hadn’t known why the thought of touching himself like this got him so hot and bothered at first, but now that Bucky is walking over and looking at him like _that_ , he thinks he knows.

“ _Bucky_ ,” he whines— and then Steve is over, he’s _done for_ , because Bucky is getting between his legs now, and he well and truly looks like he was always meant to be there.

“Turn the light on,” Bucky says, and _Christ on a cracker_ , he’s heard Bucky’s voice get low and gruff before, but never like this. Never directed at him. “Wanna see you.”

With the hand that isn’t currently inside of himself, Steve scrambles to turn the bedside lamp on… and then Bucky, _beautiful_ Bucky, is bathed in yellow-white light. Steve knows he must be able to see everything now, even the parts he’d ordinarily be trying to hide.

But there’s no hiding, is there? Not anymore.

“C’mon, sweetheart, keep going,” Bucky murmurs. He touches Steve’s inner thigh, rubbing soft circles against his practically hairless skin; it feels like he’s being electrocuted, but in a good way, somehow. Like the energy flowing through his body is going straight downwards, redirected to the place that’s _aching_ between his legs. Steve pushes his fingers the rest of the way in, until the part where the digits meet the rest of his hand is all that’s left, and then he pulls them almost all the way out before pushing them in again. When he does, it makes this wet, squelching sound; Steve winces, but Bucky only gets even more riled up than he already is.

“That’s it, look at you, so _wet_ ,” he praises. “So wet and ready for me. Were you thinking about me, Stevie? I gotta know, baby, you gotta tell me.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Steve whines; the _as if I could ever think about anyone else_ thankfully goes unspoken. “Want you so bad, Buck, you got no idea.”

“Mm,” he hums, and he momentarily looks away from where Steve’s fucking himself with his fingers to look into his eyes. “Think I might have _some_ idea, if it’s anything like the way I want you.”

Steve’s breath hitches, and all he can do is moan. “Keep talkin’, Buck,” he says— and then he hits that spot inside of himself, and he actually _screams_.

“Should’ve known you liked my mouth so much, Rogers,” he retorts, and if it were any other situation, it’d probably be accompanied by a laugh and a shove. But Bucky’s right here between his legs, so instead he— _fuck_ — starts rubbing that protruding bundle right above his hole, making Steve gasp and clench the muscles in his thighs.

“You like my fingers, too,” he comments, and something about how Bucky’s talking about him like he’s something to be observed, like he’s some exhibit in the Metropolitan Museum of Art to be looked at and wondered about, _really_ gets him going. “Look at you, baby, takin’ it so well.” And then, as if this isn’t hot enough, Bucky _slips one of his fingers inside him._

Weaker men would’ve come a lot sooner than Steve just did. Really, it’s a goddamn wonder he’s lasted this long. He shoots off like a birthday-slash-Independence-Day firecracker, coming all over his and Bucky’s fingers.

When he opens his eyes again, Bucky is looking at him in wonder, and he doesn’t immediately realize exactly why… until he looks down and realizes that he came hard enough to gush liquid everywhere. _Again_.

“Sorry,” he wheezes, hiding his reddening face in the crook of his elbow, and Steve doesn’t know whether it’s the asthma or the embarrassment that’s making him feel like he can’t breathe. “I didn’t mean to—”

He cuts himself off when Bucky lifts his arm away from his face, the rest of his protests dying before they can make it past his lips.

“Stevie,” he says slowly, his voice patient yet somehow firm and insistent at the same time. “That was the _hottest fuckin’ thing_ I've ever seen. Don’t _ever_ be sorry for that.”

(Somehow, hearing that is enough to shut Steve right up.)

 

The next morning, he wakes up to Bucky cuddling up against his back. This is hardly a new occurrence, except in all the ways that it _is_.

Bucky is holding him tightly to his chest, and he’s got all his long, toned limbs wrapped around Steve’s entire body. When Steve shifts, trying to figure out how on earth he’s supposed to go about extricating himself from his grip, he hears Bucky starting to stir behind him, mumbling something incoherent and holding a little tighter. Steve freezes almost comically, going stock still in Bucky’s arms, but Bucky seems to be oblivious to this and only pulls him in closer, grinding his morning wood against his ass.

“Mornin’,” he says, voice gruff and low the way it always sounds this early in the morning, and then he’s tilting Steve’s head back, and they’re _kissing_.

For all the depraved and stupid things they had done while riled up or half-drunk, this probably takes the cake. Bucky’s kissing him the way you’d kiss someone after a night out on the town, right before you drop them off in front of their house. His lips are soft and curious yet somehow inviting at the same time, and all Steve can do is hang on for the ride, let Bucky take what he wants.

Really, it’s all he’s ever been able to do.

Unfortunately, breathing is a requirement to survive, and it’s even more of a pressing issue for Steve, who pulls back from the kiss not so much as a minute later like he’d just run across the Brooklyn bridge.

“Buck,” he pants, trying and barely succeeding at getting his breathing under control. “Why’d you kiss me?” He doesn’t look at him when he asks, doesn’t think he could bear to see the amused expression on Bucky’s face when he says that it was all a joke, something to get him riled up and _you should’ve seen the look on your face, Stevie._

“Why do you think, angel?” Bucky retorts, and it’s weird, because he sounds like he does when Steve forgets to put his charcoal away and it smudges all over the kitchen table. There’s no joking tone, no shove to his shoulder, no _you’re my best pal, c’mon Steve, don’t be stupid_.

“I don’t know what to think.” The admission is quiet, self-deprecating in all possible ways.

He hears Bucky open his mouth, then close it, then open it again. When he finally speaks, Steve doesn’t know what he expects to hear, but it’s certainly not: “Stevie… I gotta tell you about this fella I was just with.”

Steve huffs, and he wriggles his arms, trying to escape Bucky’s practically iron grip around his torso. “I don’t think now’s the time, Buck,” he retorts, but then Bucky runs a hand down his side, from just above his too-small waist all the way down to his thighs, and he feels the fight instantly drop out of him. He knows he’s pathetic, but when it comes to Bucky, he’ll take whatever he can get. It’s always been that way, and he knows it always will be.

He feels a pair of lips press against his neck, and Steve shivers. “We’ve been playin’ this game for awhile, see. I try to rile him up by tellin’ him about all the people I've slept with. And god, you should see him, should see how he gets whenever I talk. He’s so fuckin’ hot, like an angel that fell to earth, never seen anything so tempting in my life. He makes these sounds when he touches himself, and I never wanna hear anything else.”

For once in his life, Steve’s mind is completely blank.

“But the thing is, he doesn’t know why I do it,” Bucky continues. He snakes a hand up the front of Steve’s shirt (technically one of Bucky’s, tomato, tomahto,) and rubs his thumb against his hip bone. The mere touch of Bucky’s fingers against his bare skin makes his breath hitch and stutter, and it’s tempting to tune everything out in favor of the sensation, but he keeps listening. (It’s hard not to, really, when Bucky’s lips are _right_ against his good ear.)

“And here I was, thinkin’ it was obvious how gone I was over him. You’d _think_ he’d get it inside his thick skull that I'm in love with him when I told him I'm into fellas, but you’d be fuckin’ surprised at how goddamn stubborn he is.” Bucky’s fingers find the fine trail of hair between his belly button and groin, and Steve gasps, though it’s not just from the way Bucky’s touching him.

Bucky… loves him.

That can’t be right. He must be missing some crucial bit of information. He keeps listening.

“So I kept playin’ the game. And I started fuckin’ guys, but none of them felt a hundred percent right, ‘cause none of them were _him_. So after the second one, I stopped. But Stevie, you know I'm a selfish fella. And I didn’t wanna stop riling him up, didn’t wanna stop hearin’ those little moans whenever I got him all hot and bothered, so... I started making them up. I'd come home from work, and I'd make up some story about getting on my knees for some guy in an alley, just so I could hear him come and pretend he was gettin’ off ‘cause of me.”

Steve’s mind is still blank, except for a steady stream of _buckybuckybucky_ replacing all of his higher-tier thought processes. He turns around, gaze meeting Bucky’s, and he doesn’t know what to _do_. His heart feels full, and Bucky’s looking at him like— he doesn’t even know _what_ that expression is, but there’s something soft and vulnerable about it, a soft smile on his lips.

 _Bucky’s in love with him_. That thought hits Steve like that baseball through Mrs. Connolly’s window when he was ten years old, the one that Bucky technically threw but Steve took all the blame for.

 _Bucky loves him_.

“It’s me,” Steve says dumbly. “It’s me, right? You have to tell me, please, Buck, I'm goin’ crazy over here—”

For the second time that morning, Bucky kisses him.

“‘Course it’s you,” he says when he pulls back, and even if Steve weren’t currently facing him, he’d be able to hear the smile in his voice. “Who else could it be, punk?”

“But,” Steve tries, because Bucky isn’t wrong: he is stubborn. He’ll admit that, at least, even if it’s only to himself. “I'm not—”

“Not what? Huh?” Bucky stares him down, and he hates that the primary emotion he feels, above all else, is _desire_ whenever he sees that goddamn expression on his face.

“Say it,” he commands when Steve doesn’t elaborate, tightening his grip where he’s holding Steve to his chest. “Say it, so I can tell you how fuckin’ wrong you are.”

“I'm not,” he says, and then he closes his eyes, because he can’t look at Bucky if he’s going to say this. “I'm not— I mean, I'm a man. But not the kinda man you want.”

There’s a breath, then another, before Bucky speaks again. “Right. ‘Cause you know exactly what I want, huh?”

“I'm not— don’t put words in my mouth, Buck, I'm just _sayin_ ’,” Steve interjects, voice hinging on the edge of desperation. “I could see it, maybe, if you liked both. If you liked dames, too. But you said… you said.” Steve can’t look at him, can’t do anything but squeeze his eyes shut, which is probably why he jumps when Bucky takes his chin in his hands.

“Look at me,” he says quietly. “Open your eyes ‘n look at me, sweetheart.” Bucky doesn’t know how much he’s asking of Steve, but he does it. When he tentatively opens his eyes, Bucky’s staring at him right back, and he doesn’t know how, but there’s so much love there.

Is this how he’s always looked at him?

“I don’t need to like dames,” Bucky says slowly. “Because I like _you_. You think I care what you got in your pants? ‘Cause I don’t. And apparently you don’t remember last night too good, if you think I do. I'm more than willing to touch you like that, Stevie. Don’t you _ever_ worry about that.” He kisses Steve’s jaw, and Steve can’t fight Bucky on it anymore, even if he thinks Bucky can do a hell of a lot better than some scrawny kid in hand-me-down clothes with a list of health problems that could wrap around the block if he listed them all out.

So Steve closes his eyes, though this time, it’s because Bucky’s making him feel good. He sighs, and he pulls him closer, and when Bucky’s right where he belongs, Steve swears he feels the ghost of a smile on Bucky’s lips.

“I love you, too, if that wasn’t obvious,” Steve comments, cupping the back of his head. “Always have, Buck. I've always been yours, if you want me.”

“I do,” he says, and he looks so fucking earnest when he says it that any kind of intelligible response dies in Steve’s throat. And instead of replying, Steve leans down and kisses him.

Since Steve had woken up, he could hear the sounds of a typical Brooklyn morning through the cracked-open window; there’s traffic and a wordless murmur of collective voices and a stray cat mewling, the usual harmonious cacophony of the neighborhood. But then, right then, when he kisses Bucky, the only sound he can hear is the sigh he lets out into Steve’s mouth.

Their kisses are clumsy, at first, now that Steve is single-minded about kissing him back. Steve’s lips are bumbling and too curious against Bucky’s, but blessedly… he goes with it. Slowly, Steve starts to get with the program. He’s never actually kissed anyone before this morning, but Bucky teaches this the way he taught Steve how to throw a punch when they were nine, the way he taught him how to dance in the middle of their living room. He’s patient, and fond, and _Christ almighty, Lord in Heaven, Steve loves him_.

They’re barely kissing for a minute when Bucky shifts his hips, making it clear that his morning wood never flagged, and Steve is now supremely aware of the fact that there’s only a few layers of clothing separating their bodies.

“Gonna let me touch you, Buck?” The question turns out to be redundant, because Steve chooses that precise moment to wrap his hand around Bucky’s cock through his underclothes.

“Yeah.” His voice is a little breathless, but utterly _far too composed_ , Steve’s decided. So he swallows his own anxiety down and gets between Bucky’s legs, his thighs bracketing Steve’s skinny hips.

“What do you want me to do?” He’ll never get over what a goddamn sight Bucky is. Steve’s eyes eagerly roam his muscled body, toned and defined from physical labor, chest moving up and down with heaving breaths. His nipples are hard, and his body is covered in a light sheen of sweat, barely visible in the early morning light but apparent if you know what to look for. Steve is really glad that Bucky decided to forego wearing an undershirt for once, because watching him lay here, legs spread and practically naked, is making him feel things he’d never thought himself capable of.

He suddenly has the desire to immortalize the way that Bucky looks right now. It would be far from the first time Steve’s drawn him (the secret sketchbook he keeps underneath their mattress could attest to that), but having him suddenly at his mercy like this, arching up and gasping when Steve puts a hand on his thigh… of course, he wants to give Bucky what he wants, but the more selfish part of Steve’s brain wants to grab his charcoal and forbidden sketchbook and make him hold that pose.

“Hey, Da Vinci,” Bucky says pointedly, and Steve has the decency to blush when he realizes that Bucky can see right through him. It really shouldn’t surprise him; he always could. “Stop lookin’ at me like I belong in some kinda museum and fuck me.”

It feels like all the air’s been punched out of Steve’s lungs.

It takes a beat for Bucky to presumably realize what, exactly, he just said, and why Steve now probably looks like he’s a word away from crying any second. Before he has the chance to say anything, though, Steve beats him to it.

“Can’t do that for you,” he says, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “But I _can_ do this.”

He pulls Bucky’s briefs down just enough so that his cock pops out, bobbing against his stomach. When Steve takes it into his mouth, he thinks that the momentary discomfort Bucky’s words had caused was _almost_ worth it, if it meant he would just keep looking at him like that.

And isn’t that just pure trouble, he thinks. Bucky’s gazing down at him like he created the world in six days, and he’s not gonna stop for anything, now. Maybe the worst part of it is that Steve is looking right back at him with that same spark of wonder in his eyes. He’s never going to stop, and he doesn’t want Bucky to stop, and now that they’re really in this… neither of them will ever again.

He thinks it might’ve been a little easier, if the world didn’t hate them for parts of themselves that they couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , change. But it’s like Bucky always says, after countless fistfights fueled by righteous anger alone: _World’s fulla asshats, Stevie. Can’t punch ‘em all_.

It’s definitely a strange thought to have with Bucky’s cock all the way inside his throat, but Steve would punch the whole world for him, every single inhabitant one by one, if it meant that he could have this, whatever it might be, forever.

Steve’s brought back to the present when there’s a forceful tug to his hair, Bucky’s fingers wrapping around the strands that so desperately need to be cut and tugging hard. He pulls so hard, in fact, that an involuntary moan rises up in his throat and vibrates around the length inside of him.

“Fuckin’ _Christ_ , Stevie,” he hears from above him. He looks up just in time to watch as Bucky cradles his face in his hand, a thumb rubbing his lips just where they’re wrapped around the base of his cock. “I’m not a God-fearin’ kinda fella, but I swear, you’re a fuckin’ angel.”

Up until that very moment, he hadn’t been paying very much attention to his own arousal, but there’s something about Bucky’s words that make Steve abruptly aware of how uncomfortably wet he is. He tries to be subtle about it, when he pushes his left hand down the front of his pants, but then his fingertips brush against the hard, sensitive part of himself, and the way Steve moans has Bucky suddenly paying a _lot_ more attention.

“Are you touchin’ yourself, Steve?” he gasps. The hand that had previously been yanking his hair is more gentle, now, rubbing soothing circles against his scalp. “You touching yourself while you suck my cock? That’s so fuckin’ _hot_ , sweetheart. Yeah, fuck, wish I could fuck you.”

Steve pulls off as soon as Bucky says that, and he does this best to commit this exact scene to memory: Bucky, pupils dark and legs spread wide, lips red and puffy as they drop open on the tail end of an indignant whine.

“Who says you can’t?”

Steve says this with the borrowed courage stemming from this situation being right out of one of his wildest fantasies. Although... maybe he can feel the beginnings of real courage taking root inside him when Bucky lets out the lowest, most wanton-sounding moan that Steve’s ever heard in his life.

“Fuck,” Bucky says reverently, eloquently. Then, a little softer: “ _Fuck_.”

“Yeah,” Steve replies easily. “That’s the idea, anyway.” And because everything is different now while somehow, simultaneously, nothing has changed, Bucky kicks him in the shoulder.

“You’re _so funny_ ,” he drawls, rolling his eyes, though there’s no mistaking that barely-there smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Is that what you’re gonna do all night, then?” Steve retorts. As he speaks, he leans over the side of the bed, and when he pops back up, he’s got a condom between his fingers. “Keep insultin’ the guy who’s gonna let you fuck him?”

No, _this_ is definitely the scene Steve needs to commit to memory. Because right now, Bucky is looking at him like he’s holding the whole world between his fingers, rather than just a small square of paper with latex inside.

“Aren’t you bein’ a lil’ presumptuous there, sweetheart?” Bucky says, voice lilted teasingly like he isn’t currently lying spread eagle on their shared bed with his underpants shucked down to his thighs. “When’d you even buy this, huh?”

“ _Can it_ , Buck,” Steve says, because he doesn’t want to talk about how he’s always kept a few around just in case. How Bucky was the only guy on his mind when he bought them with some spare coins he’d scrounged up from his commissions.

He doesn’t want to talk, so instead of talking, he shoves his own pants down his legs and kicks them off when they pool at his feet. He gets on top of Bucky, bare thighs straddling his waist, and just as expected, Steve’s newfound near-nakedness is enough to shut him right up. (The undershirt will never come off, though; nothing anyone says or does will change that. He doesn’t like to dwell on that too much.)

The fingers of Steve’s left hand trail down his body, skipping right over his chest and lingering on the spot just above where he’s wet and aching. He’s just about to move his fingers down, push them inside of himself, when Bucky wraps his hand around his tiny wrist.

“Let me,” he says, valiantly, desperately. “Please, Stevie?”

Really, all he can do is nod.

Bucky has always said that Steve has artist’s hands: thin wrists, bones protruding outward, and long, thin, nimble fingers. But if Steve has the hands of an artist, then Bucky’s got ones that are fit for his job, too: calloused, rough palms and thick fingers. Two of Bucky’s fingers inside of him are very nearly equivalent to three of his own; as soon as Steve consciously processes that thought, he hears a soft, choked-out moan, and it takes him longer than he would’ve liked to realize _he’s_ the one who made that sound.

“Love hearin’ all the noises you make,” Bucky murmurs, and it sounds like a confession, when he says it like that. “That’s what always got me off, when I'd tell you those stories. I swear, when I was there, I wasn’t even thinkin’ about what they were doin’ to me, or what I was doin’ to them. I'd think about how good it’s gonna feel, when I tell you how good I am with my mouth or my cock, and you moan like it’s somethin’ you actually want.”

Steve whines, then, pathetically. He’s never been able to do anything except hang on for the ride when Bucky runs his mouth like this.

“You want that?” Bucky asks. Just when Steve thinks he might have enough lucidity to form a proper response, one with words instead of noises, Bucky starts rubbing that area right above his hole with his thumb, and— that’s it, he’s gone, reduced to nothing but a shaking and gasping pile of ash above him. “You want my mouth on you, honey?”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Steve gasps, and he manages to gather the willpower to clarify what he means when Bucky widens his eyes and moves to pull out. “No, fuck, _keep going_ , just— if you do… _that_ , with your mouth, I might... come.”

That’s the wrong thing to say, evidently, because his only warning is the lecherous grin on Bucky’s face before he’s being flipped over onto his back.

“And what’s so wrong with that?” Bucky rucks his shirt up just enough so he can leave a kiss along the fine line of blond hair beneath Steve’s belly button, and then another, and then _another_ , only moving lower each time. “I know you can come more than once in the same night, Stevie.”

Oh, no. Steve is going to die. He’s going to die right here, with his legs spread as Bucky’s mouth moves lower and lower, dangerously close to where he’s rubbing Steve with his thumb.

“If you don’t want me to do this, I won’t,” Bucky continues, oblivious (or maybe just willfully ignorant) to the fact that _he’s going to kill Steve_. “But if you want to… I'd love it if you came in my mouth, Stevie.”

Bucky glances up right then, mouth hovering right over where his thumb and fingers are working him over, and Steve just _moans_ , low and loud and full of nothing but desire. Thankfully, Bucky takes that as the furious and eager consent that Steve means it to be; he moves his thumb out of the way, and then he’s sucking on that spot the way someone would suck a cock, and Steve is absolutely _gone_.

“God, _Bucky_.” Steve feels like he can’t breathe, and it might be the asthma, but he’s fairly sure it’s because Bucky has three fingers inside of him, now, and he’s wrapping his lips around him and sucking hard. His tongue flicks against the tip once, twice— and then he’s gripping onto Bucky’s hair _hard_ , fists in a death grip around the short, dark strands.

“ _Buck_!” he shouts, because he’s coming, he’s coming, he’s _coming_ , he doesn’t care if the neighbors can hear, doesn’t care if all of Brooklyn can hear, because he’s—

It takes Steve a full minute or so, to come back to himself after that one. When he opens his eyes again (he doesn’t even remember closing them), he sees Bucky kneeling between his spread legs, completely naked now that his briefs have been discarded and kicked to the end of the bed. When their eyes meet, Bucky smiles, leaning down to kiss him; this time, it’s slow and sweet, a layer of urgency gone now that at least one of them came. His kisses taste salty and just a little bit metallic; it takes Steve a moment to realize it’s the taste of himself that’s on Bucky’s lips. Inexplicably, it’s really hot.

“Hey,” Bucky says, pulling back just enough so his lips aren’t right against Steve’s as he talks. “Glad you came back to me. How was the moon?” His voice is teasing, but there’s so much affection in his eyes that Steve can hardly stand it.

This time, Steve’s the one who kisses him, and when he pulls back, all he says is: “Fuck me.” (With Bucky pressed this close to him, he can feel the shiver that goes down his spine.)

“You still want me to?” Bucky says, but it comes across as more of an incredulous statement than anything else; he reaches for the condom and starts unwrapping it, motions delicate so he doesn’t tear it. Instead of saying anything back to him, Steve lifts up his leg and hitches it over Bucky’s hip, urging him in closer with the heel he digs into his lower back.

“Alright, jeez, I get it,” he grumbles, though his expression doesn’t exactly seem very annoyed. “I'm goin’ as fast as I can, you know.”

“Yeah,” Steve replies, grin mirroring Bucky’s. “Yeah, I know.”

He’s grateful that Bucky is taking the reins with this, because despite the fact that he’s the one who purchased it, Steve doesn’t know the first thing about putting on a rubber. He makes it look easy enough, though, because then he’s between Steve’s legs, one hand on his thigh and the other wrapped around his cock so he can line up with his hole—

When Bucky pushes into him, Steve swears he can see Heaven itself. (And judging by Bucky’s absolutely gobsmacked expression… he’s not the only one who sees it.)

“ _Stevie_ ,” he lets out, and he knows the priests at the church that he no longer attends would say it’s blasphemy, but his name sounds like a goddamn prayer on Bucky’s lips. He pushes forward, keeps pushing, and all Steve can do is hold on for dear life, fingers digging into Bucky’s shoulders and legs crossed around his waist.

He keeps pushing, because just when Steve thinks he’s taken it all, it turns out there’s a little bit more to take, but eventually, Bucky does bottom out inside of him.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, at the same time that Steve says, “ _God_.”

Steve has never had anything this big inside of him before right this very second, but the ache of it feels indescribably _good_ , like the kind of sore that his leg muscles feel when he runs up the six flights of stairs to their shitty apartment. The knowledge that he’s gonna feel it, once this is done, is enough to set him off by itself; but then, Bucky grinds _just_ the right way, and the head of his cock brushes against that spot deep inside of Steve, the one that’s never failed to make him scream whenever he’s able to reach it.

“ _Buck_ — _y_!” he cries out, the second syllable of his name dragging out when the aforementioned man grinds the same way on purpose. This time, though, it’s worse, because he presses in harder, and now that Bucky knows exactly where to aim his thrusts, it’s over for Steve. Not for the first time this night, he thinks: _I'm going to die. They’re gonna find me here, wet all over and practically naked, and I don’t even_ care _._

“Hm? What is it?” Bucky’s words sound innocent, but there’s a smirk on his face, and Steve wishes he could grab one of his good erasers and just wipe it right off.  
  
“I swear to god, if you don’t _fuck me right this second_ —”

The transition from slow, purposeful grinding to pounding into Steve’s hole so hard and deep that they’re both shaking isn’t gradual at all. Bucky grabs onto Steve’s hips, practically pulling him onto his cock with each thrust into him, and Steve can feel his brain frying and melting inside his head.

“Steve, fuck, _Stevie_ ,” Bucky groans. He’s got his head buried in the crook of Steve’s neck, between his head and his shoulder, and Steve is digging his short fingernails into Bucky’s back, one of his heels dropping down to the back of his thigh and digging into the skin there. “You feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart.”

“Keep talking,” is all Steve can manage to reply, and really, it’s a miracle that he can even muster that much. When he says that, though, Bucky lifts his head up so their eyes can meet… and then he’s rubbing that bundle of hot nerve endings above his hole, and that’s it, Steve is back to wordless noises.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks, even though he knows damn well that Steve can’t answer him. “You want me to tell you how hot and wet you feel wrapped around me?” That earns a soft whine from Steve, and Bucky just smirks. “Or maybe you want me to say how hot you looked when you came for me, and how much I wanna see it again.”

It’s ridiculous, but Steve is close already, and it’s only made worse when Bucky starts rubbing against him harder. The thing that sends him over the metaphorical edge is Bucky gripping him between two of his fingers, stroking up and down, as if Steve actually had what Bucky has between his legs.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve gasps, right as he comes. It’s messy and wet and hot, and all he can do is lay there and take it while Bucky strokes him over and over again, cock pumping into him rough and fast before suddenly stopping. His hips still and then freeze, pushing into Steve as deep as he can possibly get.

“God, I fuckin’ _love you_ ,” is, of all things, what Bucky says when he comes inside of him.

For a few moments, Steve is convinced that there’s nothing in the universe except the contents of their shared bed, no sounds in the whole world except Bucky’s heaving breaths. Slowly, his senses broaden; he feels the plush, wet fabric of their sheets underneath them, and the soft wisps of hair on Bucky’s legs brushing against his inner thighs. What ultimately brings him crashing back to reality is the sound of a car horn coming from practically right outside the open window.

Steve lets out a very undignified snort.

“What?” Bucky asks, though there’s a faint smile on his face. All Steve can do is laugh softly and shake his head.

“Nothin’. Just… _Brooklyn_.”

 

Something occurs to Steve, once they’re each laying beside each other and enjoying their post-coital bliss. “Buck?”

All he receives in response is a noncommittal hum.

“Remember what you said about me fuckin’ you?” That, at least, gets Bucky to open his eyes. “I, uh, _might_ know how we can do that.”

Bucky gives him the cockiest grin he’s ever seen, and then he flips over from his side so that he’s on his back, arms behind his head. “I'm all ears, Stevie.”

“I was flippin’ through a catalog, and I saw some, uh, _things_ ,” Steve says, and he can feel a blush forming on his cheeks. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly shy when Bucky had been inside of him not five minutes earlier, but it’s probably more of a force of habit than anything else.

“ _Things_ , huh?” Bucky teases, eyes lighting up. “What kinda things?”

“You _know_ what kinda things, Buck,” Steve retorts, and he’s grateful that his body decided to replace some of his embarrassment with determination. “You want me to order it or not?”

“‘Course I do,” Bucky practically purrs, the shit-eating grin never leaving his face. “Because I, for one, can’t wait for my sweetheart to fuck me good and proper.”

For the second time that night, Steve laughs, and he tries to ignore the way that single word makes him feel like he’s having an asthma attack, but in his heart instead. _Sweetheart_.

“There’s nothing ‘good’ or ‘proper’ about you, Buck,” he teases instead of paying any heed to the sappy feelings in his chest, banter coming back to him as easy as breathing. (At least, as easy as breathing on _some days_.) “No amount of fuckin’s gonna fix that.”

He hums in consideration, and then he’s pulling Steve on top of him with ease, lips pressing against his with a smirk that Steve can feel against his skin.

“Hm,” he says between kisses, lips shiny with spit while he does his best impression of someone trying to ponder. “Well, I think it’s worth it to try.”

Steve doesn’t know if he’s talking about being fucked or _something else_ , something new, some uncharted territory that they’ve wound up in together. But with the way Bucky looks at him when he says it, like _he’s_ somehow the lucky one and not Steve…

Well. They’ll be alright. They always are.

“Now… where’d you leave that catalog, anyway?”

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](http://rogerscaptains.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/shrinkyclink) if you wanna yell about steve rogers being trans with me.


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